


Quicksilver Moon

by oolongteawithpudding



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: AU where frank doesn't leave, Angst, Enemies to... something, Frank POV, Insomnia, Marijuana, Multi, Past Child Abuse, TW: animal death (mainly chapter 4), frank-typical racism, i've wanted to write frank smoking weed ever since i started the show, peer pressure... possibly???, some frank/margaret, some religious stuff, the inherent homoeroticism of sharing a joint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28633896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oolongteawithpudding/pseuds/oolongteawithpudding
Summary: What started out as a lighthearted weed fic evolved into a deep dive into Frank Burns' past, enjoy!
Relationships: Frank Burns & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, Frank Burns/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 18
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Viola for beta reading!

One was supposed to get the proper eight hours of rest for peak military performance. Everybody knew that. So, why was the light from the O.R. shining directly in his face? Or, why could he hear the incessant canoodling at the Officer’s Club? And, why, then, did the Army make their blankets so short and threadbare? It’s not that he couldn’t handle it, he was a soldier, after all, but it wouldn’t have killed them to treat officers the way they deserved. Letting out an exasperated sigh, Frank reached under the bed and brought forth a t-shirt, which he subsequently put over his head, shutting out the light.

He lay stock still, willing himself to get to sleep. Hunnicutt was obviously having no trouble, judging by his snoring, so why was he? He was just like everybody else, if not more disciplined, which should have meant he would have more command over his sleeping patterns. Degenerates like Pierce and Hunnicutt took the easy route to sleep, but, no, sir, he would not stoop that low. Maybe all he needed was a healthy breath of fresh air, to get away from this wretched blanket and Hunnicutt’s idiotic whacko mustache. Frank threw the t-shirt off his face, landing on his footlocker. He kicked the good-for-nothing blankets off, and tossed them to the side. He couldn’t be bothered to make the bed. He stumbled around in the dark, and found a pair of pants and his boots. After all, he couldn’t go out in his skivvies- then he’d be even more of a joke to everybody.

He glanced over at Hunnicutt, whose body was barely discernable among his blankets. There was a little white fringed one that Peg knitted at the foot of his cot. Frank’s heart curdled in jealousy. Pierce’s cot was empty. The man was off doing God-knows-what, Frank could only imagine. He huffed, and let the door shut itself behind him. He silently hoped it would wake B.J.; take him out of his dreams of back home and force him to be in Korea, feel what Frank was feeling.

He decided on walking towards the storage building right at the edge of camp, and maybe further. Hopefully he could tire himself out. When he was a boy, he’d play with his toy soldiers under the covers, hiding them in his pockets in case his father came to check on him. He had shredded Frank’s comic books when he’d caught him reading one night. His father was right; it was Frank’s fault for lacking self-control. 30 years later and he still couldn’t will himself to sleep. Disgraceful.

He peeked in the windows of the O.R. He couldn’t see much of anything, not that there was anything to see to begin with. It was a slow week; he should be grateful. Most of the tents were dark, and none of the showers were on. He stopped at the sight of Margaret’s tent. He approached it with caution- maybe he’d be able to hear something, maybe Margaret was talking about him, maybe he could catch a whiff of that wonderful hair serum she used- but it was no use. It was like she wasn’t even there. Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe _Donald_ had whisked her away with his hat and his muscles and his Lieutenant Colonel-ness. Frank felt a lump in his throat. He needed to get away from the tents. He picked up his pace, nearly tripping over his untied shoelaces twice. After finally arriving at the motor pool, he looked at the mound of trash that was accumulating beside it.

“Hey, Frank, your shoes are untied.” Pierce said.

Frank looked around. He couldn’t see much with the dim lighting, and he certainly couldn’t see any people.

“Pierce?” he called, eyeing the nook in between the building and the cluster of trees where he and Margaret used to make love.

Frank stepped into the nook, discovering Pierce holding a small white cigarette. Pierce took a long inhale, and sighed.

“That’s a funny-looking cigarette.” Frank eyed it suspiciously.

Pierce laughed that hyena laugh of his, cackling and slapping his knee. Frank’s face scrunched in anger.

“I don’t see what’s so funny!” Frank yelled, indignant.

Pierce was still laughing at him. Insubordinate dunderhead.

After a bit, Pierce’s laughter died down. “You ever smoke?” he asked.

Frank scoffed. “Of course I have.”

He neglected to tell Pierce that he’d only taken a few puffs of a cigarette in middle school and subsequently thrown up in the bushes, with the whole playground laughing at him.

“Well, I got these special cigarettes from Rosie yesterday. They’re aces, Frank, they can really relax a guy.”

“Why aren’t you sharing them with Hunnicutt, then?” asked Frank, arms crossed.

“B.J.… he’s not interested. The still’s more than enough for him.” Pierce said.

“Well, good for him, then.” Frank said bitterly.

“You, on the other hand, look like you need it.”

“ _I_ don’t need anything. I can relax by myself.” said Frank.

“Come on, Frank. It might help.”

“I don’t need your pity.” said Frank, but he sat down next to him all the same.

Pierce took a puff off of his cigarette every now and then, and Frank sifted the sand through his hands. He found it distasteful that Pierce was smoking Rosie’s mysterious narcotic cigarettes right in front of him, but they did seem to make him a lot less talkative and irritating. The moon was not quite full tonight. Frank had never really considered the moon before; it had just been a fact of life. But, it seemed like it was the best scenery he was going to get tonight, not that he was one for scenery, either. Just sitting there seemed to be doing Frank at least some good, at least, since he wasn’t tapping his feet or fiddling around with his nails.

“I think I’ll try a smoke.” said Frank.

Pierce raised his eyebrows, but didn’t protest. He took one last drag off his cigarette and held it out to Frank.

“I don’t want your dirty slobber!” Frank snapped.

Pierce rolled his eyes.

“Either take it or don’t, because these, uh, herbs, cost me a week’s worth of poker winnings.”

Frank scowled, but took the cigarette anyway.

“Now, when you inhale, hold it in for about five seconds, and then let it out.” Pierce instructed.

“I know how to smoke a cigarette.”

Frank glared at Pierce as he brought the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled. A burning sensation engulfed his lungs, taking him aback, and he burst into a coughing fit.

“ _You_ …” Frank said between coughs, “you _poisoned_ me!”

Pierce was off laughing again, the fink. Didn’t he know Frank could have him court-martialed?

“I didn’t _poison_ you, Frank!” he laughed, taking the cigarette from between Frank’s fingers, “I _told_ you Rosie’s herbs were different!”

“Well, Rosie and her primitive… _treatments_ … can go stuff it!” Frank huffed.

He didn’t feel relaxed at all; if anything, he was more tense. It wasn’t fair. Pierce could relax, but not him. Never him. Frank knew it- he just _knew_ he was being nothing but a pain, again. Pierce _would_ be sharing his cigarettes with B.J. if he could, and Frank would’ve just been alone, like always. He knew Pierce would rather be sitting with anyone but him. He looked up at the moon, and it glared down back at him, as if it could see right through to all the rage bubbling up inside of him. He pressed his lips together, watching Pierce take another inhale. Sharing a smoke with someone else wasn’t like he had expected. For some reason, he’d expected Pierce’s saliva to taste of cherries, or maybe gin, but that was a silly thought, since he knew Margaret and Louise both tasted like nothing.

Frank hoisted himself up, leaning on the supply shed wall for support. He took one last look at Hawkeye, who blew smoke in his face and waved, and left for the Swamp. The moon was behind him, but he could still see the stars. (Why wouldn’t he be able to see the stars?) The lights in O.R. reminded him of driving in a sunset. He usually couldn’t catch a sunset at home since his property was surrounded by a thicket of pines, but, every so often, he’d drive home from work at just the right hour, the sun peeking through the rearview mirror and a deep orange hue in the sky ahead.

He missed his car. It was brand new, or, at least it was before he got drafted, and American-made, too. It was big enough to fit the kids and Louise, not that they didn’t spend most of their time in Louise’s car. He took good care of it, anyway, washing it every week so that the chrome didn’t rust. He wondered where it was now. Probably gathering dust in the garage. The moths near the outside lamps looked like dust. Well, they did end up as dust when they got zapped in the lightbulb. Frank giggled, even though he knew that was terrible.

He made a beeline for his cot as soon as he got to the Swamp, planting face-first on the mattress. He didn’t want to move, let alone take off his boots and pants. He didn’t need a blanket, or a shirt over his eyes, either. The stars were in his head now, moving along vertical pathways beneath his eyelids. He watched them fall, one by one, leaving glimmers of light in their wake. He thought of triangles, squares, and circles until he was fast asleep, fully-clothed, face-down on top of his pillow and blanket.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you CaptainAFAB for looking this over!!

The days were the same. Usually, it was easier that way, but it wasn’t when he spent the day all alone. He thought the army would be different. He thought he would make friends—like-minded individuals who would recognize the importance of what they were doing here. He prayed to God every day before shipping out that it wouldn't be like home there, but trouble seemed to follow him wherever he went. No matter what he did, everyone he met always ended up hating him. Two months into his deployment, he stopped praying at night. Maybe he wasn't meant for the kingdom of heaven. God had all but made that clear. He was incompetent—not like Pierce. 

Pierce taunted him, as if it was easy to cut people open and sew their guts back together every day. Frank knew nobody wanted him there, not even Margaret. He hated it, hated every minute he was in the same room as those rank bodies. He’d never even wanted to go to medical school in the first place. He just finished because that's what he was supposed to do. That's what he had to do, or else he would be a failure, and his father would’ve kicked him to the curb. He didn't sign up for this. Sometimes he doubted he could go on like this, hands shaking, eyes dry and bloodshot, Hawkeye's incessant bragging grating through his skull. It was enough to drive a man mad.

At least Margaret comforted him. Well, she used to. She was his haven, his light. When he cried, she didn’t slap him around the head and call him a sissy. The first time she held him, stroked his forehead and shushed him quietly, Frank had nearly broken down right on the spot. No other woman could make him feel like that. No other woman would tolerate him, anyway. He felt like he was seven years old again: scooping himself a bowl of leftover oatmeal in the morning, walking to school with his head down, sitting in the corner where the schoolhouse and the gymnasium buildings met eating his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, walking home weighed down by his books, staying absolutely silent at the family dinner, and pleading to God at night to give him a best friend. When he met Louise, he thought God had answered his prayers, but, at the end of things, he felt even more alone with her than he did without her.

He would go to Margaret’s tent tonight. Yes, that’s what he’d do. If they couldn’t embrace or make love, at least they could still talk. Just hearing her voice set him at ease. And those silky pajamas she wore at night draped over her curves in just the right way… Frank was getting ahead of himself, but he couldn’t help it. He had been deprived for so long, and it was only natural for a man to feel this way. He knew it was a sin, but at times he would get himself off at night to the thought of those smooth legs wrapped around his body. He craved sex, but he craved closeness just as much. Now that nobody seemed to want to get within a ten foot radius of him, he was liable to explode.

\--------------------------------

It was night, and everybody was going through their bedtime routines. Pierce and Hunnicutt were being clowns, as usual, and Frank was changing into a new undershirt and boxers. It was getting quite hot, but Frank needed cloth on his skin. He couldn’t fall asleep without it. Margaret had always teased him about wearing socks during sex, but Frank just couldn’t perform without them on. Besides, he didn’t see how socks could negatively impact the act. They didn’t cover anything important. He set his alarm clock to two hours from then, because he needed to have his wits about him for Margaret. He tucked himself fully under the covers, scowled at his bunkmates, draped a t-shirt over his head, and prayed for sleep.

\--------------------------------

The alarm clock rang, the sound of the bells traveling through the tent. Hunnicutt groaned, and Pierce muttered several swear words, throwing his blankets to the side and looking directly at Frank.

“If that alarm doesn’t stop tearing my eardrums apart in ten seconds, I’m going to introduce it to my boot!” He shouted, his voice groggy from sleep.

Frank gave a piercing glare and a disapproving grunt as he shut off the clock.

“Why in the hell would you set an alarm for the middle of the night?” Hawkeye asked.

“I’m going to see Margaret.” Frank said indignantly.

“She'll probably be asleep.” said Hunnicutt.

Frank didn’t respond. Hunnicutt was right—she likely would be asleep. He hadn’t thought of that before. Hawkeye laid back in his bunk, chuckling bitterly.

“Don’t you ever think, Frank?” he said.

Frank’s face scrunched in anger.

“I try!” he yelled, “I try to do everything, but you guys make fun of me no matter what I do!”

Hunnicutt was silent, looking very much like he wanted to be anywhere but there, but Pierce was looking right at him, staring with those baby blue eyes of his, taking in Frank’s words.

“I’m going to a place where I’m wanted!” Frank shouted.

Frank flung himself out of bed and exited the Swamp, slamming the door behind him. He felt tears prickling at his eyes, and willed them to go away. Why did tears always come at the most unwanted times? It was a disgusting, disgraceful bodily function, and Frank would have been happy if he’d never cried again. He marched over to Margaret’s tent, and knocked furiously. The light was out, but he didn’t care. He needed to see her. He needed someone to tell him he was okay. The light turned on, and Frank smiled to himself, straightening his posture and combing his hair with his fingers. Finally, Margaret opened the door, wearing her pink bathrobe over a nylon slip.

“Oh, Margaret!” Frank whimpered.

“Frank!” Margaret’s mouth hung open. “Have you gone crazy?”

“I just needed to see you, Margaret, I just need to talk to you, I need to!”

“You're not welcome here!” she hissed angrily.

Margaret attempted to shut the door behind her as she headed back in, but Frank stuck his foot in the doorway at the last second. Margaret slammed it on his foot, anyway, but he was a man, he could take it.

“I just want to talk, Margaret, I swear!”

Margaret’s face hardened, and she gave Frank’s foot a swift kick.

“Ow!” Frank yelled.

He drew back, hopping on one leg, whining and whimpering as Margaret locked the door.

“Get out, and stay out!” she yelled from inside.

Frank stood outside the door, helpless in his boxers and undershirt, shifting his weight off of his hurt foot. He put his ear up to the door, but he heard nothing. It was baffling—one minute, she loved him, and the next, she wanted nothing to do with him. It had been only a matter of time before he was replaced by someone who was better looking and a braver soldier, anyway. He was a fool to think that anyone could be satisfied with him.

Frank trudged back to the Swamp, looking down at the dirt ahead of him. He always liked to watch the dirt, and see if there were any cool-looking rocks or patterns in the terrain. It was always interesting, and far less intimidating than looking up and seeing people looking, walking, talking. Frank preferred to save himself the trouble. He opened the door to the Swamp, and made right for his bed. Curse this night. Curse his roommates, and curse how easily they get friends and girlfriends. Curse the Orientals for pulling them into this.

If he were home, he’d at least have a predictable life, and at much less risk of dying. He didn’t know how others put that fear aside so easily. It would probably be a couple hours before he’d get to sleep. He hoped he’d dream about Margaret, dream about when she still wanted to be his friend. That would make laying in this hundred degree bed a little easier. Enter a dream world, and forget about the real one. 

If he had it his way, he would live in that lucid dream forever. It would be a quaint little street, right next to a big park. The only trees would be oak and maple (Frank wasn’t fond of pine needles) and the lawns would be manicured and green. He would live with Margaret in a blue two-story house, where the paint never chipped and they always had fresh pork chops for dinner. His three girls would play in the yard, and they’d do their homework every night without being asked. Only decent Americans would live there, and the Johnstons certainly wouldn’t be blaring popular music from across the street every Saturday night. Yes, people wouldn’t hate him there, they couldn’t. Then, and only then, could he relax.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to CaptainAFAB for being the real mvp

It was night, but not so far into the night when Pierce and Hunnicutt would come back from the Officer’s Club, hanging onto each other, making up new swear words together. It was the perfect time for Frank to write his letters, especially now that it had been three weeks since he’d last done it. He had wanted to write to Mother sooner to tell her about Margaret, but ultimately had resisted the urge. She didn’t want to hear about things like that, and the risk of Louise finding out was too great, anyway.

He unlocked his footlocker and drew out his fountain pen case, kept under his spare blankets away from thieves like Pierce and Hunnicutt. He sat at his desk (proudly neat amongst the filth) and began to write.

_Dear Mother,_

He would write Louise later.

_Thank you for the Lake Michigan post-card. I am glad to know you are enjoying the beach._

Frank liked the beach as well, but he hadn’t been since he was a child. He hadn’t yet learned to swim, but he had been able to climb the jagged rocks, small for his age but agile.

_I have been just fine._

He paused.

_A friend has been unkind to me, but I can manage it. I am able to stand on my own. There were just two instances of wounded this past week. It is good to have a break._

It was hard to think of more things to put in the letter, since everything he wanted to write he couldn’t.

_I will continue to keep safe in Korea, and to keep from vices. I hope to be back very soon._

_Love,_

_Frank_

He looked the letter over, satisfied.

“Whatcha writing, Frank?”

Frank jumped at the sound of Hawkeye’s voice, and spun his head around.

“You can’t sneak up on a man like that!” Frank snapped.

“I was just curious what the man who accosted Major Houlihan was up to.”

Frank stared at Pierce, shocked. “I did _not_ accost her!”

“Oh? Then, why was she complaining to me in the O Club?”

“I paid her a visit last night, that’s all.” Frank’s cheeks tinged red. “You know, you saw me go out.”

Pierce sighed. “I appreciate Margaret as much as you do, but even I know when to quit.”

Frank scowled. How could Pierce lie like that? How could he even _think_ there was any comparison between those _obscene_ passes he made and what Frank had for Margaret?

“Come on, Frank. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Stop pretending to be nice to me!” Frank shouted.

He capped his pen, slammed it down on the desk, and walked out into the night, heading anywhere but there.

Frank was beginning to think that wearing a full uniform during the middle of the Korean summer was a mistake. He just didn’t want to look _lazy_ , like Pierce—or, worse, one of the enlisted men. Though he was sick and tired of seeing men out of uniform, he saw little point in keeping his sweat-soaked button-down on now that the day was over, and tied it around his waist. The breeze felt nice on his damp undershirt, the wet cloth slightly unpleasant but still tolerable. Head cloudy with tiredness, he marched forward right to the storage shed, and sat down in the only place he knew.

His back was against the wall, head buried in his legs. He did this for hours and hours way back when, thinking up endless action figure stories in his head. Now, instead, he thought of how things would’ve gone, _should’ve_ gone with Margaret. Maybe if he’d been better, braver in the O.R.—if his hands didn’t shake and he _knew_ what to _do_ —she would’ve liked him more.

Then, he noticed soft footsteps drawing near. Almost on a reflex, he scrambled upright, brushing himself off, and faced whoever was walking toward him. Pierce. Of course it was. There was no doubt he had come to tell him off about Margaret, or one of his patients, or both.

“Hi, Frank,” he said, looking him over before sitting on the ground.

“Pierce,” said Frank, turning away from him, looking to the right, into the section of unlit terrain, mildly uneasy of what might come out of there.

Pierce dug into his pants pockets, and Frank turned to see the flash of metal that he now knew to be Pierce’s lighter. He continued standing, but watched curiously as Pierce opened a tin of what looked like dry lawn clippings and started sprinkling them into a small piece of white paper.

“What are you doing?” Frank asked, lowering himself down so he could see better.

“I’m rolling a joint,” Pierce replied.

“A what?”

“A joint! A cigarette, a smoke.”

“That’s a silly name for a cigarette,” Frank huffed.

“Call them what you like. I call them fun.” Pierce licked the end, and tightly rolled the paper into a cigarette.

“Why not buy them already rolled?” asked Frank.

Pierce sighed. “Frank, stop asking questions, or I’ll go and share this with the latrine rats.”

“Fine,” said Frank, sitting with his arms crossed.

Pierce gave the joint a final lick, and Frank averted his eyes because it felt too explicit to watch. Pierce lit the flame with his silver lighter, taking a heavy drag. That, too, felt explicit, but Frank couldn’t place why.

“Here,” said Pierce, holding out the cigarette.

Frank’s arms stayed crossed. “Why? So you can poison me again?”

“Frank, I just inhaled from it. How could it poison you and not me? Where’s the logic in that?”

Frank said nothing.

“Did it poison you last time? I don’t think it did, since you were sleeping like a baby when I came back to the Swamp,” said Pierce.

“Oh…” Frank muttered angrily, and snatched the cigarette from in between his fingers.

Why did Pierce always have to be right? It was unfair. Frank was right about a lot of things, too, but nobody ever listened to him (especially not Pierce, so why was he being so nice to him?). As he inhaled, he held the burning smoke in his lungs, fighting the urge to cough, holding his breath once he was done inhaling. He handed the cigarette—the _joint_ —back to Pierce with his eyes shut.

“Frank,” Pierce laughed, “you don’t have to act like you’re eight years old holding your breath because your dad wouldn’t let you go for ice cream. You can let it out now.”

The smoke came out in a whoosh as Frank coughed, throat burning, tears at his eyes. Once the coughing subsided, he wiped his eyes and stared straight ahead. Pierce gently took the joint from his fingers.

“How is it?” he asked.

Frank paused, and then turned to Pierce.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I’m on the good Samaritan patrol, rolling joints for tense fellows such as yourself,” said Pierce, the beginnings of that stupid grin of his forming on his face.

Frank huffed, and turned away.

“Oh, come on, Frank, I know you’re upset, but that’s no reason to bite the hand that feeds you.”

“I am not upset.” Frank insisted, “I can find a new girl any time I like.”

“The Major really did a number on you, huh?”

Frank felt himself blushing. Another bodily function he didn’t need.

“How would you know?”

“The whole camp knows!” exclaimed Pierce.

“Sh, sh, not so _loud_!” Frank whispered.

Pierce rolled his eyes. “You have to let go of it, Frank!”

“I won’t! I can’t!” Frank whined.

“ _Frank—”_

“You don’t know how much we loved one another! How _can_ you know, anyway, since all you do is have one-night stands with nurses ten years younger than you?” Frank spat.

Pierce stared at Frank, taken aback.

“If this is how it’s going to be, I’m leaving,” said Pierce, gathering his things, “What more should I have expected trying to form a friendship with you, anyway?”

Frank blinked. Friendship?

“Toodles, Frank. Catch you in O.R.”

Pierce stuffed his lighter in his pocket, putting out the cigarette on the corrugated metal wall.

“Wait, no, Pierce, _Hawkeye—”_ said Frank, scrambling upright.

Pierce walked on, as if he’d never even heard him. Frank jogged to catch up with him.

“I didn’t know you wanted to be friends, honest! I just thought you were making fun of me!”

Pierce stopped walking, and faced Frank.

“I share my drugs with you, I give you advice, and you think I’m trying to make _fun_ of you?” said Pierce.

“I—I didn’t know—wait, _drugs_?”

“Yeah, that’s right, drugs. We’ve been smoking marijuana, Frank.”

“ _You_ —you _did_ poison me!”

Pierce scoffed, and walked quickly ahead, leaving Frank standing in the dirt. He wished he’d known Pierce’s true intentions before insulting him in such a way, but it seemed to be in his nature to drive people away. He watched Pierce walk away, red bathrobe swaying in the breeze, and felt a new, more tender ache forming in his chest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to CaptainAFAB for editing my wordsalad draft and encouraging me along the way <3 Also, if you didn't see the tags, there is animal death in this chapter, so take heed.

It’s strange.  _ Friends _ . Nobody’s offered to be his friend since the fifth grade. Oh, sure, he’s talked to cousins and classmates and colleagues and Margaret (oh, Margaret…), but he hadn’t had a real friend since Fred ditched him for the basketball team in high school. When Frank finally realized Fred wasn’t going to hang around with him anymore, he snuck out to the gymnasium shed and poked holes in all the basketballs with his Boy Scout pocketknife. 

Fred was like Hawkeye—he could deal with Frank’s… abrasive mannerisms and laugh along the way. They were both tall, with black hair and kind faces. Fred was a refuge in the midst of his adolescence, and Hawkeye a comfort in the times of war. He and Fred played hooky during recess one day, scrambling up the ladder to the school building’s roof. They laughed in the sunshine and Fred held him when he was dizzy with heights—no, no, he didn’t. Frank wasn’t scared of heights and Fred never touched him. He shook his head and the image of Fred’s smiling face slowly dissolved, along with the schoolhouse and the hidden corners of the schoolyard.

Hawkeye doesn’t talk to him—not even so much as an insult in the O.R. Frank was glad for the silence there because it gives him space to  _ think _ . He goes about his day, the only person who speaks to him being Igor as he serves Frank Army mush. He doesn’t like Igor very much, but he’s grateful for the few words he says to him. 

At night, Hawkeye laughs too loud, talks too loud, and Frank can’t sleep. He yells at both his tentmates to pipe down, but all he gets in response is laughter. On one hand, that’s to be expected of those drug-peddling miscreants, but on the other hand, he just wants to have a peaceful night again, a night where he can talk to Hawkeye like buddies do. He just doesn’t understand. Hawkeye  _ knows _ of Frank’s sleeping troubles (that he told to him in confidence), yet he carries on at all hours of the night. When does the man ever sleep? Does he even sleep at all? Frank had gone several times without sleeping for a night, but he has never tolerated it well. He doesn’t know how Hawkeye does it. At times like this, he’d pack up his mini go-bag and curl up in Margaret’s tent, and she’d reassure him that they were just jealous of his rank. But he doesn’t even have that option anymore, and it sounds silly when he tells it to himself. He still has the go-bag. He wonders if he should just unpack it.

When Margaret announces her wedding, he cries in the latrine for hours and nobody comes looking for him. He returns to the Swamp, hiding his sniffling, burying himself under the covers. He knew she was an engaged woman, and it would’ve been stupid of him to assume she’d never marry. But, at the same time, he assumed they’d find each other again, that Donald wouldn’t be enough for her, or that she’d still love Frank. But, Margaret was always one to take charge of her life, so, as much as it pained Frank to think about, she had made up her mind. 

The wedding comes quicker than expected. Frank feels ill-prepared, so he puts on his best class-A’s last-minute, swallows down his tears, and walks to the gathering. When Mulcahy asks if anyone objects, everyone looks at Frank. He’s hot under the collar, desperate to say something, but he refrains. He sees how happy Margaret is, how radiant she looks in her wedding dress, and determines not to disturb what she has, no matter how badly he wants it for himself.

He tries not to pay attention to Margaret, but it’s hard not to when she smiles so often. She walks with a new lightness in her step, and he  _ is  _ happy for her, as much as he can be, but he wishes  _ he _ could’ve made her feel that way, even though he knows he couldn’t. Frank can’t touch himself thinking about her anymore. It brings up too much sadness, so he thinks of nothing, mindless pleasure to blow off steam. 

He takes the night shifts more often so that he can look at the moon on the way to and from Post-op. Incidentally, it lands him with Hawkeye that night. Every time Frank looks up from his crossword puzzle, Hawkeye is checking patients’ charts one-by-one, staring at each man ghoulishly.

“Don’t you have something else to do?” Frank snaps.

Hawkeye ignores him, humming some ostentatious jazzy tune, examining one man’s bandages. Frank scoffs, turning back to the desk. He puts the crossword puzzle aside, takes out his medical papers, and gets through only a few sentences before he realizes that his brain is too beat for reading. Instead, he picks out a pencil from the second drawer and starts drawing a snowman in the margins. The three lumps of snow are a little uneven, but he gives it pebble eyes, a carrot nose, a pebble smile, and a newsboy cap. For the arms, he chooses some French baguettes he saw in a catalog once.

“Quittin’ time!” Hawkeye bellows.

“Not so  _ loud!” _ said Frank, shutting the folder and shoving the pencil to the side.

It rolls off the desk, clattering to the ground.

“Uh oh, I think your patient had a fall,” says Hawkeye, followed by honking laughter.

Frank sneers, reaching for the pencil, but each time having it escape on him. He huffs, stands up, taking his hat off the hook and putting it on his head. Hawkeye goes back to singing the same irritating song. Frank knows he’s doing it just to annoy him. He gives Hawkeye a menacing glare as he marches out of Post-op, hitting the swinging door so hard his hand stings afterward. 

Cutler and Johnson are coming in together to relieve the both of them, but Frank doesn’t bother holding the door open for them. He has just walked past the shrubs before he hears a mewling. No, more like a yowling, from an older cat. He pauses. Hawkeye walks out both doors, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder, looking past Frank as if he were invisible. But, then, the yowling comes again, clearer this time. Hawkeye pauses, frowning. Frank takes a few steps closer to him. Hawkeye was sure to know what to do. He’d make sure Frank wouldn’t mess things up.

“What do you think it is?” asks Frank, crouching down toward the bushes.

“Can’t you tell when a dog barks?”

Hawkeye crouches down next to Frank and digs through the bushes.

“Oy.”

“What? What is it?” Frank asks, semi-panicked.

“She’s in labor. Looks like she might be in trouble.”

“Oh, gee,” says Frank, fumbling, “I’ve never delivered a cat baby before.”

“Hey, don’t look at me,” says Hawkeye, sighing. “Go get a supply box, and a pillow if you can find one. I’ll try to find out what’s wrong.”

Frank runs back into Post-op, toward the supply room (which he knows intimately well), and grabs the first box that wasn’t too small for a cat to lie in. He bursts back into Post-op and grabs a pillow from the first empty bed he sees.

“Hey!” says Cutler.

“I’ll give it back, I promise!” Frank shouts as he bolts out the exit doors.

Frank presents the box and the pillow to Hawkeye.

“Put the pillow in the box. I’m going to move her.”

Frank does as he is told, and watches as Hawkeye suffers a few scratches at the tired hand of the pregnant tabby.

“She’s got a kitten stuck in her birth canal. I’m going to try pulling while she pushes. I’m going to need you to get me petroleum jelly and gloves.”

Frank runs into Post-op yet again, searching frantically for the aforementioned items.

“Hey, quit wrecking our stuff, Burns!” says Johnson.

“It’s for—it’s for a—it’s—I just need it, ok, so you can get out of my hair!”

Frank grabs a handful of disposable gloves from a box and runs outside. He hands the gloves and the Vaseline to Hawkeye.

“Thanks,” says Hawkeye, keeping his eyes on the cat.

They sit by the tabby for a long time. Hawkeye pulls at the stuck kitten for what seems like ages, Frank at his side, watching. Once, Frank gets up to gather sugar water for her to feed on, but Hawkeye stays, brows furrowed, fingers bloody.

“Is it working?” asks Frank.

“Does it  _ look _ like it’s working?” says Hawkeye, through gritted teeth.

Frank remains silent and prays for the kittens, even though he’s lost his faith. Her crying makes him want to run far away but he knows he has to stay. After a while, Hawkeye is ready to start plan B (whatever that may be), but the tabby wails and Hawk pulls out the kitten. Frank gasps. It’s small, but it looks deformed, with a crooked neck and swollen limbs. Hawkeye sighs.

“What’s wrong with it?” Frank asks, chewing his lip.

“It’s dead,” Hawkeye says softly.

Frank’s mouth is open, but he is silent. His mind is blank, with only the gray kitten’s scrunched-shut eyes filling his head. The mother cat yowls.

“I think another one’s coming,” says Hawkeye.

“Is that one going to die, too?” says Frank.

“There’s no way to tell.”

Frank barely breathes as he watches the tabby holler and push. They both stand back as this kitten comes out head first. It’s more brown than its mother and late sibling, and it looks healthier, even just seeing the head. Frank crosses his fingers and watches as it is finally fully out of the womb. The tabby bites the amniotic sac around it, allowing them to see it more clearly.

“When should it open its eyes?” Frank asks.

“Kittens aren’t supposed to open their eyes for another week, at least.”

“Oh!”

He looks at the little brown kitten being licked by the tabby, and the dead deformed kitten laying still off to the side.

“We did it, Frank!”

“Huh?”

“She’s going to live!”

Frank smiles and looks down at them all, his eyes wet. Hawkeye turns to him.

“Frank… are you crying?”

Frank hides his head behind his hands.

“No!”

Hawkeye sighs yet again.

“Why don’t I bring the cats in for nurse Johnson to look at? I’ll be right back.”

Frank hoists himself up to one of the benches and attempts to hide his face with his hat. If anybody else had seen, he would’ve been made fun of for a week straight. He hates it when his body starts crying without him being aware. It could’ve at least had the common decency to give him some kind of sign. He didn’t even know why he was so het up about these common street animals, anyway. They were just more mouths for Korea to feed, so why wasn’t he happy when the gray one died? He felt for them like he would human children. The doors swung open, revealing Hawkeye standing there, sans box.

“Johnson said she was going to be fine. She’s probably going to have more kittens tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Frank says weakly.

Hawkeye holds out his hand. “Come here.”

And Frank does. Hawk leads him to their spot, and they both sit down. Frank’s eyes are puffy, and he hasn’t shaved since that morning. Hawkeye wordlessly reaches out and takes Frank’s head in his hands, cradling it as his tears start to pour out.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ The dirt path of the sidewalk. Dandelions growing between pebbles in the road. The new telephone poles, standing as tall as the sky. Summer. Short pants and sunburn, ice cream and sweaty nights. Sunday school every week and an industrial fan in the kitchen. Approaching his house, Bible under his arm, Frank can already hear his father throwing kitchen utensils. He knows it’s him because Mother never does that sort of thing. His steps become apprehensive. _

_ A flash of orange in the grass. Confusion. The tickle of lawn grass on his ankles, running to follow that little orange blur. He’s under the neighbors’ bushes, but they won’t see him. He’s safe in there with his new friend—a cat—no, a kitten. He stares at it in awe, noting the white streaks on its face, holding out his hand, hesitant. The kitten sniffs his fingers, and Frank can feel its breath. He strokes its head with one finger and smiles. He will name her Orange, he decides, because she is sweet. The Bible slips out of the crook in his arm, falling to the ground, and scaring away Orange. Frank calls to her that he’s sorry, but he’s not sure if she heard him. Full of happiness and worry, he runs back to the house. _

_ Orange is waiting for him that Wednesday as he walks to the park, far enough away from home that he can stoop down and give her a bit of jam and bread. Frank wonders where her home is, or if she just stays out here at night. He wonders where she hides from the coyotes. It must be warm there. He picks her up, takes her to the hidden tree swing, and she purrs in his lap ‘til sundown. _

_ Once, Orange shows up at the back doorstep, and he has to shoo her away lest his parents discover her. Asking God for forgiveness, he drops two leftover crackers out his window that night and hopes she finds them. _

_ The next time he walks to Sunday school, Orange walks with him the whole way. Frank is beyond relieved, petting behind her ears the way she likes. He hopes she will grow into a great, big lion he can ride to school one day. _

_ It takes everything for Frank not to tell Mother about Orange. Father seems to know everything he tells her. Maybe he was listening in through their telephone. On the days Frank doesn’t see Orange, he is kept up at night with the thought that coyotes have gotten her. He includes her in every nightly prayer, just to make sure she is safe. Her favorite food is butter, which she licks off of Frank’s fingers when it melts in his palm. Petting her feels like home. _

_ Even though Frank dislikes sports, Father drags him to baseball tryouts at the park anyway. They remain silent throughout their walk, apart from when Father tells him to stop shuffling. Frank shifts the weight of the bat around in his hands, hoping he knows more this summer than he did last. There are more tire marks on the road than there were the previous week. He looks up the road and sees a dead squirrel. No, not a squirrel… Frank runs up to look closer and screams, dropping his bat and ball. Orange’s little body is cut in half by a tire mark, blood and innards marking the road. He starts sobbing hysterically, curling up into a ball, looking away and willing Orange to come back. _

_ His father takes him by the ear and hisses, “Quit blubbering like a baby! Cats are vermin, everyone knows that. You should be  _ happy _ that  _ rodent _ is dead.” _

_ Frank wills himself to be silent, but the tears still come. He takes one last look at Orange’s kind face before his father drags him home. _

_ “Stupid child,” comes a mutter. “Such an overreaction.” _

_ He throws Frank to the ground before locking the front door. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pls let me know if u had an emotion thank u


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Huge huge huge thank you to the hawnk gang (holograms and CaptainAFAB) for looking this over and encouraging me!

Being naked is a funny thing, Frank thinks as he unbuttons his uniform shirt. Even though he’s in a camp with hundreds of other guys who look the same as him, he always feels under scrutiny each time he takes his clothes off. He throws his shirt to the side, and begins to peel off his undershirt. He is always thankful for the end of summer, when he’s able to finally go more than a day without taking a shower. The only time he’s really been eager to take off his clothes was with Margaret, but he still liked to leave his shirt and socks on if he could. He feels like the human body is meant to be covered,  _ his _ body is meant to be covered. Sometimes, when he has his clothes all the way off in that halfway point from the towel rack to the shower, he could picture family, friends, and God alike shaking their heads at him in disgust.

He puts his pants to the side, leaving just his boxers and boots on as he hastily grabs his bathrobe. He slings a washcloth over his shoulder and walks out of the Swamp. He looks down at the dusty ground as he walks toward the men’s showers, not daring to look up on the chance he may be acknowledged. When he opens the door, Hawkeye and B.J. turn their heads to look at him, stopping whatever joking around they had been doing.

“Hi, Frank,” says B.J., wearing that cheery smile that’s always stuck to his face.

“Oh, go suck a lemon,” says Frank, heading for the door.

“Wait, wait—” says B.J., “I’m almost done. Just give me one second…”

B.J. submerges his head in the showerhead’s flow, rinsing off all his shampoo. He steps out of the stall and wraps a towel around his waist. Frank avoids looking.

“There you go, Frank. The water’s fine,” says B.J., gesturing to the stall on his way out.

Frank says nothing. B.J. and Hawkeye give each other the Boy Scout salute, and then B.J. is gone. Frank hesitantly takes off his robe and boxers. He almost steps in the shower with his boots on, but he stops himself at the last second. He enters the stall and turns the water on, relishing what hot water is left. He lathers his chest and arms with soap, rubbing vigorously.

“She had three more kittens, you know,” Hawkeye says, soaping his torso.

Frank is silent.

“Nurse Johnson buried the gray kitten outside the nurse’s tent.”

Frank turns away, in case a tear slips out.

“They gave all four of the kittens to some locals. They’re gonna make great farm cats.”

Frank looks at Hawkeye. He wants to express gratitude, friendship,  _ something _ , but nothing comes to him.

Finally, he whispers, “Thank you.”

Hawkeye smiles at him, and exits the shower stall. He puts on his red robe and goes on his way, leaving Frank to shower in peace.

\----------------------------------------------

“Do you have any threes?” asks Frank, holding his cards close to his body.

Hawkeye smirks. “Go fish.”

_ “Nerts,” _ Frank mumbles.

“Easy, Frank. There’s no stakes in this game, remember?”

“But I still want to win!”

“Everybody does, Frank. Just relax.”

Normally, he would’ve had a biting remark to spit back at him, but he decides to do as Hawkeye says. It’s not like he doesn’t enjoy being here, after all.

After playing a few more hands, Hawkeye wins. Of course. Jealousy starts to burn across Frank’s mind, but after seeing Hawk cheer and dance, he can’t help but smile at the silliness.

“Oh, ho, there’s that smile, Major Sourpuss!” says Hawkeye.

Frank attempts to conceal his face, but Hawkeye moves his hand out of the way, pinching his cheek. Frank can’t help but grin. Hawkeye’s laughter dies down, and he moves his hand off of Frank’s cheek, giving him a pat. They sit in silence, watching the sky. Hawkeye brings out two beers, cracks them open, and hands one to Frank. Frank takes the can, holding it in his lap, running his finger along the rim while Hawkeye drinks his.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Frank asks, voice soft and timid.

“It’s nice to be nice.” Hawkeye says, shrugging.

Frank scowls. “I want a real answer, none of that funny business.”

Hawkeye sighs, face turned towards the moon. Frank watches him intently.

“When I see you… when you were crying over Margaret, hell, even when you’re just going about your business… I know you’re suffering.” Hawkeye sighs.

“Why would you care? It’s not like I was nice to you.”

“Why do I need a reason?”

Frank has nothing to say to that. Hawkeye takes his hand anyway.

\-----------

It’s one of those nights in O.R. where the air is thick with sweat and heat from the open bodies. Frank cannot think, cannot stand, but he somehow is still cutting anyway. Everyone’s chatter mixes around in his head ( _ Sponge! Get him out of here, Corporal. Clamp. Bring that in. Get him into post-op. Nurse! Bring me that bottle. Yeah, nice. _ ) and he barely seals the wounds in time. Kellye closes for him, and he looks at the ceiling as the orderlies lift his patient to post-op. He has about a 30-second break before the next one. He looks down to see that his hands are shaking, but there’s no time to rest. The next patient is brought in. His arm is blown off.

“My Bonnie lies over the ocean…” Hawkeye croons.

“My Bonnie lies over the sea…” comes B.J.’s response across the room.

“My Bonnie lies over the ocean,” they sing together, “so bring back my Bonnie to me!”

“Would you knock it off?!” yells Frank.

“Knock knock!” says Hawkeye.

“Who’s there?” answers B.J.

“Kanga.”

“Kanga who?”

“Kangaroo!” Hawkeye shouts with glee.

Frank looks up from his patient’s exposed shoulder socket to glare at them.

“I’m serious, you know!” he snaps, “A man can’t work in conditions like these!”

“Lucky for you, there’s no more wounded,” Klinger calls from the doorway.

Hawkeye, B.J., and Potter cheer. Frank remains silent. He has to focus, or he might screw up. He can’t do it effortlessly like the rest of them.

“Did you hear the one about the horse and the bartender?” says Hawkeye.

“Why the long face,” Potter says, deadpan.

“You know your stuff, Colonel.” Hawkeye winks at him.

Potter rolls his eyes, and goes back to his patient. At the other table, B.J. stretches while Johnson clamps a bowel.

“My last patient,” he sighs.

“Make sure to give him the bill on the way out,” says Hawkeye.

Frank’s eyebrows are knitted together, hands shaking as he attempts to close. But, it’s not enough, it’s never enough - the vessel starts bleeding again, and Frank curses hard enough to make Kellye flinch.

“Clamp, clamp!” he shouts.

“Clamp,” Kellye says nervously, handing it to him.

He will do this. He has to do this. He sweats as he repairs the wound as best he can, trying to minimize nerve damage along the way. He sighs in relief as he gets ready to close, though his breathing is still shallow and tight.

“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…” Hawkeye sings.

Frank looks up, more deliberate this time. “Would you shut up already?!”

“Burns!” yells Potter.

“Jack Frost nipping at your nose…” continues Hawkeye.

“I don’t have to take this, you know!”

Frank throws his tools down, and gives Kellye a pointed look. She nods, and moves over to Frank’s side to close. Frank stomps out of the O.R., throwing his cap and scrub top to the ground as he goes.

“ _ Burns!  _ Get back here! That’s an order!” Potter yells, but Frank has passed through the doorway at this point.

Potter sighs in frustration, tethered to his spot by his patient. Hawkeye looks up, sighs, and turns to Nurse Able.

“Would you close for me?” he asks.

“Sure, Doctor,” she says.

Hawkeye sighs again, picking off his gloves and heading straight out the doors. He makes a quick stop to take off his scrubs, and then heads right for the supply room. When he opens the door, he hears rustling.

“Frank?” he calls.

“Go away!”

Hawkeye steps further in, and spots Frank standing slouched against the corner.

“What’s your problem? That’s the second time you’ve made a dramatic exit this week.”

“I don’t  _ have _ a problem,” Frank insists.

Hawkeye rolls his eyes. “What  _ isn’t _ the problem, then?”

“Don’t use that lip with me.”

“Those kids have to suffer because of your lack of thumbs and you’re complaining about  _ lip?” _ says Hawkeye, taking a step closer.

“You are a  _ plague  _ in O.R.!” Frank yells.

“I  _ sing _ because I’d go  _ loony _ if I didn’t!” Hawkeye shouts.

“I go loony when you  _ do!” _

“Fine, you wanna be loony, be loony!” spits Hawkeye.

_ “I  _ can’t help it that I need a little peace and quiet!”

“ _ I _ can’t help it that you bitch and moan every time I try to carry a little tune!” Hawkeye yells, hands waving.

“Oh, your face is just waiting to be slapped, buster!” Frank says, his nose scrunching in anger.

“Why don’t you do it, then?”

“I bet you’d like that,” Frank sneers, stepping closer.

“You don’t have it in you.”

They’re face to face now, eyes locked in a standoff. Frank concentrates harder, willing his arm to lift itself up and slap Hawkeye, but it doesn’t. Hawkeye takes a step closer, and their lips brush on accident.

Then, Hawkeye is grasping his cheeks, and Frank’s arms are wrapped around his waist, bringing them closer together. Their lips are locked tight, each man leaning into the other, tongues entwined. Hawkeye strays from Frank’s mouth to plant kisses along his jawline, and Frank lets out a whimper, hands bunching in the fabric of Hawk’s shirt.

“Is it locked?” Frank gasps.

“Shit.”

Hawkeye runs to lock the door, leaving Frank panting, dazed. He puts a hand to his neck, wondering if there’ll be marks. But, he doesn’t have time to worry about that, because Hawkeye’s back, his mouth on Frank’s collarbone, hands roaming under his t-shirt. Frank yields to the touch.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought! Peace out!


End file.
